Filled Faithless
by amor-remanet
Summary: As he slowly descends into madness, Barty Crouch, Jr., takes Severus along with him. SLASH, BCJxSS, features unrequited SSxLE and mentions JPxLE. Very dark, very mature themes.
1. Parties

"stranger in a strange land"

Barty's not a very social being, and he never really has been. It's just so difficult, getting on with people. He lacks the same temperament as Regulus – the charming, debonair snobbery that seems like it should be so common in their elite circles – the darling indiscretion that's praised as "being forward," or "having a strong sense of self," or whatever other euphemism have circulated and will continue to do so. Even Rabastan's patterns of behaviour would be improvements. True enough, it's hard to take him seriously. He jokes frequently and about most things; he avoids tension at all costs, even his dignity; he purposefully got smashed at his brother's wedding reception this past summer, with the intent of being less inhibited than usual.

It worked, that plan of his. But instead of getting him to dance on tables or whatever else he'd had in mind, he started brooding. Regulus took it upon himself to ignore the situation and pick a fight with his own brother, and so Barty was the one going into the corner, the one making sure that Rab (and all the liquor having its way with Rab's system) was as good as could be expected.

"'mfine," he muttered darkly, smacking Barty's hand away. "Perfect."

"No, you're not," Barty insisted. He forced his hand through, shoving Rab's black hair aside to get a better look at him; he was so far from fine that it wasn't funny. "C'mon. Let's go up to Regulus's room. Get away from the noise."

Rab smacked his hand away again, positively whimpering, "Fuck it _all_."

"_Rab_-"

"It's not _fair_!" he choked out, sniffling. His bleary eyes were desperate, wild. "'dolphus gets _his_ Black sister and what'do _I_ get? 'Sorry, Rab, yours turned _Blood Traitor_ and ran off with a fucking _Mudblood_! She's _having_ his _kid_! Could have Lestrange heirs, but _NO_! She wants to have a mutant little Halfblood freak with her _disgusting_! _Mudblood_!" He paused, his lips trembling with the last word as though it were to unholy to utter. Finally, in a small voice, he managed it: "…_Husband_…"

His voice had the same sound as breaking glass. It occurred to Barty then that, despite Pureblood tradition, Rabastan really loved Andromeda, in an even more old-fashioned sense. Courtly love, true love, poetry-writing love – everything that women claim to want, and the poor lad never had a chance. That realized, Barty just sat down and poured himself a drink, which he had slowly. Then again, he never had been good with big, spontaneous displays of emotion. The side effect of living in a cloister, he supposes now. The only thing that saves the situation for him is that, as Mum constantly reminds him, it isn't _his_ fault that he's delicate. He has her constitution after all, so there's no telling when he might get ill or why; as a child, he simply needed to be protected.

At least the saving grace of everything is that the incident with Rab was just one of many disappointing incidents with parties. Barty's hated them since he got inexplicably sick to his stomach at one of his father's well-to-do Ministry official parties when he was six. He vomited in the privacy of the loo, and then promptly returned to the party, where he promptly insisted that he was fine and passed out into Mum's arms in the same breath. Other incidents, similar or worse in nature, are commonplace; he just doesn't talk about them now, nor does he turn them into spectacles. He's fourteen. He knows better.

Slughorn's parties up at school are nominally better, at least they always have been. This year, though, Barty hates going to them as well. He'll try to find any excuse to get out of them. _Any_ excuse. Moving Quidditch practice doesn't work, since Macnair is vile, disgusting, and doesn't seem to think that his strategist is important, just because he doesn't play. He's _just_ the strategist; they can trounce Potter's team without him.

Barty doesn't even know what's wrong, which makes things that much worse. All he knows is that somehow, Severus is involved. The Prefect's badge Slughorn keeps promising him for next year means nothing as soon as Severus enters any room. Nothing means anything then. They're odd friends, or so says everyone, and they know it well – which just means that the pink and glowing feeling that the older boy puts into Barty's chest must be odder still. It has to be. There are names for blokes who get pink and glowing over other blokes, and Bartemius Hallam Crouch, Junior, is forbidden to be one of them.

Worse, though, is the feeling that comes anytime Barty sees Severus with Evans. Brainy, beautiful, Mudblood Evans, with her red hair, green eyes, perfect smile, and Gryffindor Prefect's badge. She's about the only reason why Barty doesn't want a badge of his own. Getting the badge means dealing with the audacious little bint who ruined his chances before he'd considered their potential existence.

Or maybe, he considers, watching another party he couldn't get out of from one of Slughorn's corner chairs. Maybe he never really had chances to begin with, and, like Rab with Andromeda, seeing so took a Mudblood. At least, though, Barty has the good sense to not get drunk.


	2. Tenacity

"believe it or not"

The answer, or so it seems to Barty, is to throw himself as far into his work as possible. No one seems to find this strange. After all, anyone who reads the _Prophet_ knows about his father and can infer about the high expectations that go ever unrewarded. Slughorn taught his father, and his mother, and often points out how Barty has his mother's sweet demeanor and his father's ambition, and how there's no doubt that, when Barty takes his OWLs, he'll get Outstandings on all twelve.

So what if he's not sleeping anymore? Or just barely getting not enough? He was hardly sleeping when he made this decision anyway. At least this way, his insomnia's productive. This way, his feelings are productive. Best of all, though, is that no one notices a thing. He keeps churning out Quidditch plays, so Regulus and Macnair don't raise their eyebrows, and Rab raised concerns a few times, but stopped when Slughorn called him off. Because Regulus couldn't care less, Narcissa feels obligated to offer her opinion, to try talking Barty into seeing Madam Pomfrey, which never happens. There isn't any need for it; Pomfrey'd just be interfering.

Besides, by focusing on what's really important, Barty can't think about those extraneous distractions. Like all the girls Regulus has offered to set him up with and how much he doesn't like any of them. Like how Rab practically begs him to go to bed some nights, but he still stays awake in the Common Room, working until he passes out or it's time to go get breakfast. Like how, despite his weak constitution and better knowledge, he can't bring himself to enjoy any meals, nor to see a point in them, and how, as such, he only really eats enough to get through it all without succumbing to diversion, or a fainting spell of some kind. Like how McGonagall, who professes to show no favouritism even though she obviously prefers Gryffindors, clearly wants to keep him after class "for a little chat," but can't because he's doing better than everyone else in fourth year. Like Severus. And like the way he looks at Evans.

It's starting to wear on him, Barty must admit. Nothing feels real anymore, and stretches of time have started disappearing from his memory. Not class, never class, he'd try to off himself if they were class, but things that feel like they should be important. Staring off into space is a far more enthralling activity than ever before; at least it is when Barty doesn't have a book in front of him or a class to participate in. He has to do better, be better, he can't let himself think about Severus and his affections for that girl, how the thought should go, "She's not good enough for him," but goes, instead, "He's too good for Barty." Can't think about it, can't think about it, there are other things, can't think about it-

After Christmas hols, after about three months of this (more or less; Barty's long since lost track), he's still doing it. Insomnia becomes second nature after a while. Staying up until dawn, book open, taking notes, staring in fascination at any magic he musters – like some Mudblood who's never seen the stuff before, he's utterly transfixed by it – and pushing back thoughts of what he'll never possess.

The only difference is that, tonight, someone has the gall to close his book.

He snaps his head up, complaints at the ready, but he holds his tongue for…

"_Severus_."

He nods and takes the book without so much as a word.

"Give that back," Barty huffs. "I'm working."

"I think you've done quite enough for tonight, actually," Severus says shortly.

With as much energy as he can muster, Barty holds his wand in Severus's direction. His wrist goes limp, but his eyes are steel.

"You'll find it hard to be threatening when you're sleep deprived and undernourished."

"_Prat_," Barty sneers. What he means is, _Thank you_.

"Think whatever you will, but I am not leaving until you sleep."

"And I'm not sleeping, so stalemate." _What took you so long_?

"I can be unbelievably tenacious, Barty."

"Me too."

"Come sleep."

"Why do _you_ care?" _Prove you care_.

"Because I like you," Severus says simply, intently. "I thought you'd possibly just hit a rough patch, so I didn't say anything, but now it's been too long and you haven't stopped. And now I'm intervening."

"Save it for _Evans_," Barty sighs, exasperated. "Or someone else who believes it." _I love you_.

Leaning in dangerously close, Severus narrows his eyes. Barty gets an electric shock when the older boy grabs his wrist. For looking like a wilted weed, he's surprisingly strong.

"I don't _care_ if you believe it or not," he hisses. "It's true, and I'll _urge_ you not to _test_ me on this." His hand closes tighter on Barty's wrist. "It is a rare privilege."

Barty has a thousand insults and snide remarks, but not a one of them will come to him. His eyes flutter like two manic insults; he feels the color drain from his face. And Severus's hand is still clamping like a vice on his wrist. Still clamping on his – his mouth opens, closes, can't say anything. Severus is one, then two, then one, then blurred. He can't…

The last thing he hears comes as he's slipping out of the chair: "_Barty_!"

And then, nothing.


	3. Dream Upon Waking

Barty comes to in the Hospital Wing, which, even though is vision goes in and out of focus for the few minutes he's awake, he recognizes immediately. It's too white and sterile-looking to be anywhere else. Swimming visions of the previous night flit before him ominously before he slips back out of consciousness.

It's afternoon and warm when he wakes up again. The wing is lonely enough that Pomfrey isn't even bustling about, and through the lethargy is the stinging sensation that Barty is missing several classes for this rubbish. Good thing Slughorn likes him and will argue emotional distress. He'd never get away with it otherwise. Come to think, there's still a chance that he'll be punished, but Mum's too sweet to punish him, and Father doesn't care enough to do so. He'd make his secretary send the Howler and, at that, she'd no doubt send a box of sweets along with it. Just as a treat.

Sighing, Barty rolls onto his side. His peace is punctuated by a long, skinny figure, with dark hair and a prominent nose, sitting on the other bed and staring at him quite intently.

"You're not in any danger," Severus says calmly. "At least none that isn't easily repaired with sleep and sustenance."  
"You've been here-"  
"All night. Slughorn rather helped me get you here, and got me the day off as well. Seemed to think you needed someone with you, and I was quite available. I do not think that Lestrange approved-"  
Barty sits and stays up, even though his head is spinning. "Rab was here?"  
"Around lunchtime. He tried to rouse you until Madam Pomfrey threw him out, but you would have none of it."  
"What'd he – did he say…"  
"He'll come back after Quidditch practice." Severus pauses to make perfect eye contact; the look makes all of Barty's organs squirm. "I don't suppose you can explain why on Earth you thought this was a good idea?"  
Barty looks away, to the window, and then down. His voice is small, mousy. "No…"  
Severus's eyes follow him perfectly. "I was afraid that you'd be reticent. Because I am merely proceeding on inference, but it would seem to me that you are having an issue with some part of your life, and that you are trying to ignore it through effectively drowning in parchment and work."  
"I'm not," Barty says in the same small voice. Defiant, he lays down and pulls the covers up.  
More defiant, Severus kneels by the bedside. "Your refusal to talk is very damning evidence to the contrary." For once, he actually looks… _hurt_. "What is it?"  
Before Barty can stop himself, the question comes: "What's so great about Evans?"  
"I could ask the same of you about Black the younger."  
"He's been my friend since we were kids. What's so-"  
"As she has been mine. As I've already explained to Avery and Mulciber, Lily is a brilliant witch, and a better friend."  
"But what's so great about her? She's just another girl, there are loads of them, she isn't good enough-"  
"If this is about her parentage-"  
"It's not about her sodding blood! It's about _you_!"

When Severus doesn't pull away, Barty's left with the suspicion that he doesn't fully understand the reality of the situation. It's strange, really. He's so circumspect, he sees into the truth behind facades without much apparent effort on his part, he pegged just what Barty was doing and what it was doing back to him when no one else did – and yet he missed this simple thing that strikes Barty as being so obvious.

"If you wish," Severus starts slowly, and only after a lengthy pause, "to cease our friendship-"  
"No! Not that. Never that."  
"Then what did you mean?"

Before he can consider the consequences, Barty answers him with a kiss.

Much to his surprise, Severus makes no effort to retreat.


	4. Lies

"tit for tat"

Severus doesn't protest for weeks, which, honestly, is more disconcerting than it would be if he'd raise his voice to do so. It's just strange, and because Barty can't read him, he never knows if the older boy really approves of what they do. Honestly, he probably wouldn't blame him too much. He'd be hurt, but he'd understand. With their fathers, something like this is supposedly out of the question.

Then again, there's not that much to disapprove of. They sit together for meals (which Severus still spends making sure that Barty eats enough, even though the likes of Regulus have noticed that he looks better). They steal glances across the Common Room. In the library, sometimes, they hold hands. Their kisses are chaste, private, few and far between. Grousing's hardly unexpected, especially given the joint existence of Potter and Regulus's prat of a brother, but it never seems to come. Severus calls it discretion, but Barty knows that it's merely the usual game: no one wants to pay them mind.

For the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match, though, they get their much-needed time alone. It's still not worth much. Macnair threatened everyone, and quite effectively, into going. Everyone save the two of them. They could be closer, but they're not. They could, in theory, strip wholly naked and no one would give a damn.

As it stands, though, Barty just has his legs over Severus's lap, _almost_, but not quite, touching. Proximity is nice, but it's not satisfying.

"You're in love with her, aren't you?" he asks before thinking otherwise, leaning his head on their sofa. "Evans?"

"That depends," Severus replies, not looking up from his book. His voice isn't normally so elegiac. "Do you want honesty?"

"Yes. So: are you in love with her?"

"Very much so."

The power of three little words does not go unexaggerated. Not that Barty doesn't know this power, or didn't before – but he hears, "I love you" so infrequently that it's easy to avoid thinking of such things. Now, though. Now… he's sure that he'll be sick, and that his heart's gone on sabbatical. Someone has clearly dropped lead into his stomach. His lips tremble.

"But it isn't like that," Severus adds. He's still reading.

"Isn't like what?" Barty demands weakly. And Severus doesn't answer quickly enough. Dangerously, his voice quavers again: "Isn't like _what_?"

"She's not in love with me," Severus explains, "and so my affections mean very little. I'm not entirely unsurprised, either."

"Is she in love with someone else?"

"Yes. …No. …I don't know, but neither does she."

"She is, isn't she?"

"I have my suspicions, but they are only that."

"Who"

"I'd rather not discuss it."

Another pause, and then: "So, if you love her, why are you with me?"

"Who's to say that I'm incapable of loving you both?"

Barty doesn't wait for an invitation, he just shoves himself up and into Severus's lips. He has to kiss him, has to know. Severus remains unfazed.

"What point would you like to prove?"

"I just… you are with me for me, right? I'm not just second best? What you'll take because you can't have her?"

"Hardly, and it betrays your intelligence for you to think so."

"Honestly?"

"Always. If I didn't want to be with you, I wouldn't be with you. Besides, it makes you happy, and for what you've given me, I'd hardly settle for not making you happy."

This kiss tastes a lie, but disbelief is easily suspended in this case.


	5. Fantastic Terrors

"a vision softly creeping"

Once more, Barty wakes up screaming. It's summer now, and he's been like this since late May. All the time, these thoughts attack him, out of nowhere, unforeseen, and they're worst when he suspects them least. He hasn't had a good night's sleep since June. Good thing Severus isn't around for now, or else he might actually have to answer for it, instead of brushing it off and getting coddled, which is really all he's done since the nightmares started.

It's what he's doing right now, for point of fact. He's been getting coddled full time since that night just after term ended, when Rab found him in the washroom, drunk and sobbing, playing dangerously with one of Winky's kitchen knives. It was an heirloom, an antique, and Rab nearly broke the law to get it from him. Ever night, after the dreams that inevitably come, Barty can't help but wonder why Rab did such a thing, what on Earth could have possessed him to cling so fervently to one of his best mates, who has yet to prove that he's anything but useless. A good boy from good parents who will just keep doing good.

His subconscious seems to have other plans. It wants to kill Evans. It wants him to do it.

That's why he wakes up pale as death, drenched in cold sweat, and gasping for breath. Screaming as though he'd seen the Devil himself. It's bad tonight. He hexes the little bitch silly, gives her the Cruciatus until she loses her voice from screaming and passes out, and, finally, he carves out her heart by hand and holds it until it has its last, weakling pulse. He clenches his fingers on it like a vice; he squeezes until her heart bursts and stains his face. A drop lands on his lips; he licks it off. Her blood tastes coppery, but, somehow, sweet.

He makes Severus watch and that, more than the act of torturing and killing, of utterly destroying a defenseless girl – that control is so exquisite. Its beauty far surpasses all else. And then he takes his almost lover, has his way (for once), and bites to draw more blood. He relishes in it.

That's why he wakes up screaming. That's why he once thought it wise to have half a bottle of Firewhiskey. That's why Rab conned his brother and Bellatrix into playing nanny to the two of them and Regulus at the Lestrange summer home. That's why Rab hardly sleeps anymore.

It's pounding in his head this time, his pulse, beating a tattoo in time with the horrid, morbid, goddamn beating of that Mudblood slag's defiling heart. The initial scream rouses Rab from his sleep, and the groaning makes him come running. It's almost adorable how much he cares for Barty, how devoted he is – this whole "healing venture" was his idea, and he panics if Barty so much as drops a fork. The logic goes that this is all in Barty's nerves. He needs time away from his twelve OWL-level subjects, and from his constant anxiety over Severus.

Even as Rab grabs Barty's hands to keep him from yanking his hair out, the blonde boy knows without knowing that all of this is futile.

"Another one?" Rab demands helplessly. "What happened?"

"I killed her," Barty explains. "Tortured her, killed her, cut her up, and made him watch. Had – had my way with him-"

Without warning, Rab embraces Barty around the shoulders, pets his hair with one hand.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "Just a nightmare. It's why we're here. It's all in your-"

"What if it isn't, though? All in my nerves, I mean."

"Of course it's all in your nerves! Why would you think-"

"What if it's in my soul, Rab? My heart, or my soul, or something, but only my brain tangentially?"

"What are you-"

"You said I needed rest, so I've been resting. You made sure of that. We came out here so I could bloody well _rest_! But these sodding dreams are still getting _worse_!"

"You're not resting enough-"

"I can't get any _more_ rest, Rabastan! You do everything _for_ me!"

"They'll stop, Barty. Just trust that you'll get-"

"But, _Rab_…" Barty pauses, choking on the syllables before he can pronounce them. "I… I _like_ them."

Rab stares at him, completely blindsided. Trembling, he reaches out and pushes Barty's hair off his face, tucks it behind his ear.

"Go back to sleep," he whispers. "It'll be alright."


	6. The Importance of Being A Black

In the morning, Barty tries to go about his business – getting breakfast, getting clothed – as though nothing happened. He can't rely upon Kreacher (the elf isn't Winky and, as such, doesn't know the specifications to follow) and evading Rabastan's ever-watchful eye is sometimes difficult, but given that sleep is rare for both of them, early mornings often find Rabastan in bed.

To be honest, Barty can't much help waking early; the less time he spends with those vile creations of his mind, the better. True enough, he loves them – rather, how they make him feel – but they cannot gain more ground. They already have his sleeping mind, and they already trouble his waking hours more than their fair share; to let them have any more of himself would only end in ruin. For as much as he doesn't like his father, pointless rebellion against him wouldn't prove anything. Indulging these horrors would be, if nothing else could claim the title, entirely pointless.

The old man shows up in the visions, sometimes. Before shambling into the kitchen this morning, Barty dreamt again that he tortured Evans, killed her, and made Severus watch. This time, though, Father was also present, and found himself sliced from nave to chops – and by his only son, the supposed weakling. While making tea, Barty sees the previous night play out again, but he tries not to think about it.

"Have a good night?" Bellatrix, and her hand on his shoulder. Barty didn't even see her come in, he was so preoccupied with his tea. Her voice is light, deceptively sweet.  
"I've had better," Barty answers bluntly.  
"There are solutions for that, you realize."  
"They say there are, but nothing works."  
"Beg pardon?"  
"Sleeping is a solution. Rest is a solution. This whole, bloody _trip_ is a solution, but-"  
Bellatrix laughs loudly enough to silence him. "Oh, Barty, _no_," she sighs. The loving tone in her voice is strange, and Barty doesn't like it. "I meant _real_ solutions, not those anodynes that Rabastan so foolishly subscribes to."  
"I have no idea what you're talking about, so if you'd care to elucidate things for me, I'll listen."

Her eyes glint then and Barty remembers things that Regulus has said to him and Rab in whispers. About that madman, Voldemort, and his henchmen, the Death Eaters. They've had a surge in activity against Mudbloods and Muggles, oddly coincidental with Bellatrix's uncharacteristic good mood. Cup of tea and saucer in hand, she follows Barty to the table, still smiling, still pleasant.

"Don't deny it, Barty," she says delicately. "It's quite alright. After all, it's what you're bred for-"  
"Excuse me-"  
"Was your grandmother Charis Black or _not_?"  
"Yes, she was, but that hardly-"  
"So admit you are a Black. Your father and grandfather were rather disappointing, but you're different. You know you are."  
"Fine, I'm a Black. What does that-"  
"Those dreams you have – and yes, I do know that you have them; I had them too at your age, and, aside from that, you and Rabastan are louder than you two seem to think; it's lucky for you that Regulus and Rodolphus sleep like rocks – anyway. You have those dreams for a reason."  
"Yes. Because I'm jealous and need a rest from schoolwork."  
"Hardly! You have them because of your power!"  
Barty pauses, dumbstruck. "My… _power_?"  
"Your _power_. My power. The power of all Blacks, even those disappointments named Sirius and Andromeda. They only think that they can run from it-"  
"I have no idea what you're-"  
"There's a _reason_ why we are better than the common rabble, Barty, and it is not just about money or purity of blood. We have the power in us for immeasurable greatness, and yours is just starting to awaken."  
"But it wants me to-"  
"Don't fight it! Embrace it!"  
"_Bellatrix_! It wants me to kill someone I don't know, just because she's in my way! I – no. I can't embrace that."

She smiles knowingly, nostalgically, and sits back in her chair, sipping her tea as though he's said nothing. The silence is nerve damage.

"No, no," she says finally, her voice more wistful than Barty likes. "Perhaps you can't just now. We all come into it at different rates. When you're ready, though, I will gladly be your instructor."  
"I won't _be_ ready. I'm not going to just… _accept_ this."  
"That's what Rodolphus said," she comments lovingly. "I'd tell you to ask the Auror down the road how that turned out, but I'm afraid that you'll find that he and his Mudblood wife are quite incapacitated."

With a laugh, she finishes her tea and leaves Barty alone. The _Prophet_ headline for that morning: "Unknown Dark Wizards Murder Favourite Auror."


	7. Please

Being that November is peak cold season, the Hospital Wing's hardly been empty, but Barty has never felt more alone. Other students have been running in and out all day, and Pomfrey's been bustling about, everywhere and back, but the one figure that matters remains inert. Severus hasn't even rolled onto his side.

Slughorn told all the Prefects this morning what had happened, or something rather like it. Apparently, someone tricked Severus into a near-death experience; of the lot, only Barty knows that it was Sirius Black. He doesn't know all the facts of the case, of course, but he heard Black bragging to Potter and Pettigrew that he'd "set up something good for Snivellus." Damn the luck that Barty hadn't found Severus and warned him sooner, and it wasn't for lack of trying.

And damn Horace Slughorn for defending Black to Dumbledore, which is about the only sodding reason that pillock isn't expelled yet. Damn Slughorn, and damn Dumbledore for being so soft on an attempted murderer, just because he ran away from home and proved incontrovertibly that he's too weak to really be a Black. Damn Black the worst of all, for not only formulating something meant to kill Severus (whatever it had been), but also for laughing about it and daring to show his sodding face at Hogwarts.

And what a face it is, too. Haughty, handsome – the traditional good looks in his family (_their_ family, as Bellatrix's letters remind Barty constantly, though the looks passed Barty over in favor of his looking just like Mum). What Barty wouldn't give to see that fucking face bloody, broken, and covered in filth, just as Black so often leaves those that he dislikes. Given half a chance, Barty would break the pillock's Patrician nose with his bare hands. Beyond that, even, he'd shove the shattered bones back, and down, and hope to a god he doesn't believe in that they'd obstruct that Blood Traitor's airways.

While he choked, Barty'd knock him over, pin him down, and throttle him. Suffocate him by force of hands on throat until his eyes popped out. Though he knows he's still in the Wing, Barty can see this happening before in the first dream to not occur at night. If Severus doesn't wake up, there's no telling what could happen. He has to wake up. He's the only thing…

A groan comes from below. Barty looks down to see Severus's eyes flitting open.

Thank Merlin someone can save him from what he wants to do.


	8. Explosive

"How can you stand there and tell me that you blame him?"  
"He tried to kill me, Lily!"  
"He saved your life, Sev!"  
"Because he had a change of heart at the last minute, I should be grateful to him?"  
"Yes!"  
"He was in the situation up to his eyes and only rescued me to save his own skin!"  
"He still saved you!"  
"He bloody well helped to orchestrate what would've killed me or else made my life not worth living!"  
"Are you saying that Remus's life isn't worth _living_?!"

Evans and Severus only think that they're alone during this argument. Most unbeknownst to them, Barty's put himself behind a nearby corner, and he's absorbing exquisite joy from this little row they've found themselves in.

"Yes, I think I rather _implied_ that!"

Barty doesn't even care what's wrong enough with Lupin that it could've killed Severus or else made his life not worth living – given the time and sound of it, lycanthropy. All that matters is that, finally, Severus and his Mudblood are fighting, and that, this time, they might break up. Or whatever the more appropriate term is, since they were never really together.

"You're so blinded by your fight with him that you can't even thank him?!"  
"Why should I?"  
"He saved your life, perhaps?"  
"For entirely selfish reasons. That doesn't merit my thanks."  
An enraged groan. "You are abso-bloody-lutely incorrigible, Severus!"  
"Just because you fancy him doesn't mean that I should forgive him!"

Barty's knees buckle under him and he sinks to the floor in utter ecstasy. Oh, but Severus will regret that. _Oh_, but he'll be left behind and forced to love Barty only. The fight has a few last jabs, but Barty isn't listening; his joy is too great to allow that.

Evans storms away in a right strop, and, dejected, Severus sulks back to the Common Room. Neither even notices that they were eavesdropped upon, they're both so self-absorbed.

If this doesn't relieve Barty of his wretched dreams, it seems that nothing ever will.


	9. Crimson

Green light illuminates the night, far overshadowing the blazing fire beneath it. The screams from within, though, are more beautiful than Barty has words in him to describe. That poor woman almost looked like Mum. They could've been twins if she hadn't been a Blood Traitor, and were her face not so easily replaced by that of Mudblood Bitch, Lily Evans. Even now, ages after she broke Severus's tender heart, Barty finds her very much a convenient mental target for the Cruciatus. He still hates her and his Power still intends to see her suffer. It's only barely satisfied by transforming victims into her.

Still, it's transfixing what an Unforgivable Curse and a few murmurs of "Incendio" can do. Barty isn't even aware of time, or danger, until Severus pulls him by his robes and Apparates him home.

The violence of the evening is still coursing fresh in his veins as he drags Severus back into the bedroom; it surges as he yanks off Severus's clothes, and then his own, then throws him onto the bed. Without the fairness of a warning, Barty pounces and lays bestial claim to Severus's mouth, taking in the taste of saliva and his pre-attack firewhisky, the beautiful, sick, addicting taste that's so necessary for Barty's very survival.

Then he draws first blood for tonight and, feeling it run, hot and slick, into his mouth, he knows at last that he's alive.


	10. Drunk

It's not until Barty's sixth year that Severus gets desperate, and Barty's surprised that it took this bloody long. Severus lost Evans to Potter, and yet he still kept his head about him.

Now, the two of them are in broom cupboards more often than ever, even though they've both got other concerns to look after. Severus has his NEWTs at the end of the year – but, at least in his case, caring is optional. He's a genius; he has no need for worry.

Barty, on the other hand, has twelve NEWT-level subjects, Prefect duties, and Slughorn and Rabastan looking over both his shoulders, making sure that he doesn't lose his mind again. Because, of all things that could happen, losing Barty's mind to stress would _clearly_ be the worst.

The nightmares still haven't stopped. If anything, they've gotten worse. They plague Barty in the waking hours, too, with all manner of things he'd willingly do to several people if he didn't know better than to indulge his so-called Power. Snogging Severus is one of his few reprieves, but even that has started feeling very strange. Barty pulls Severus's hair more often, applies more force when grabbing him anywhere, drags his nails against that sallow skin, but only where other people can't see. And then, tonight-

"Ow!" Severus gasps, yanking backwards. His lip's all bloody. Barty doesn't remember that happenng, but he can taste the blood in his mouth. It's warm, thick, everything he dreamt it'd taste like.

And he quite wishes that Severus wouldn't stare at him in that scandalized manner. He's just as surprised by this as the other boy.

"What the _Hell_ were you _doing_?!"  
"I'm sorry," Barty whispers. He pulls out his wand and quickly, gently performs a simple healing spell. "Just got a bit overenthusiastic."

Severus looks wary, so Barty adds, "Won't happen again," even though he knows in his heart that it will.

He has to restart the snog, and he doesn't draw more blood. At least, he doesn't this time.


	11. Of Devils and Darwin

After the ceremony, Barty forces Severus to stay in the graveyard. "Just for a little air," he explains. Naturally, Severus acquiesces. How can he not? Barty just withstood hexes, curses, jinxes, and even Bellatrix's Cruciatus to prove himself worthy and earn the Dark Mark.

He stayed conscious through ten rounds of Bella's specialty, beating Regulus out by eight. He knocked Rodolphus out in three. It was easy when he remembered Bella's lessons: you have to _feel_ the Curse to use it properly. Mentally transform the victim, any victim into Father – focus on and _know_ how much pain that man deserves to feel for all he's ever failed to do, and torturing someone becomes so _easy_. The Black Family Power.

Bella's been right all along: fully using the Curse, immersing himself in it and tapping into his Power – it's intoxicating. It hits harder and faster than any drug, including sex. It's easily the best that Barty's ever felt.

"Barty?" Severus inquires at his silence.

In five minutes flat, Barty has him naked, sweating to spite the cold, and screaming for mercy in the holy tones of ecstasy. And the only ones, save the two of them, who hear are, the lot of them, long-since dead.


	12. Losing The Faith

Before either of them can think about it, Barty has Severus on the floor, pinned by both the wand arching over him and the lanky-limbed boy presently occupying his chest. Barty keeps his free hand on the slimy fuck's shoulder, even though his struggle is minimal.

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean, 'Don't wait up?!'"  
"Exactly what I said," Severus hisses. "I'm going out. Don't wait up for me."  
"Out where?" When he doesn't answer immediately, Barty presses his wand into the offending jugular vein, and asks again, "_Out where_?"  
"_Out_!"  
"I can't let you go out-"  
"I'm not a child-"  
"Tonight is _special_, Severus!"  
"What? Did you and Bellatrix kill more helpless Muggles? You did that, and now we're meant to celebrate in the usual fashion, am I right?"  
"I haven't any idea what you mean by that."  
"Really. I think you know _exactly_ what I mean by that."

Severus huffs and finally takes the initiative to fight back, knocking Barty back and off his feet. That accomplished, he scuttles backwards and holds up his wrist. There's a fresh bruise on it from when Barty slammed his arm into the door. Honestly, Barty doesn't know why he's so upset about it. It's not like Severus hasn't had worse injuries before, and giving it to him was only a precautionary measure. Severus is rather like a puppy these days, and he has to be kept from doing regrettable things.

"What?" Severus asks the silence. "Marveling at your handiwork are you? Got all good and riled up with Bellatrix, and now you mean to take it out on me? Again?"  
"How can you say that," Barty sighs. It's a question without being one. "How on Earth can you even think to ask that of someone who _loves_ you."  
"Is _this_ love?"  
"It was an accident."  
"How _many_ times, exactly, have I heard that?" He jabs a finger at the mostly healed bite marks on his neck, his other wrist, and collarbone. "What about these? Were these love, or an accident, or whatever other excuse you have tonight?"  
"They were just-"  
"Was it love when you broke my nose? Or when you dislocated my jaw, or when you did… whatever it was that you did to my shoulder and we had to get Mulciber to fix it in the middle of the bloody night?! How about all those times you've drawn my _blood_ – am I really meant to believe that all those times were love? Or accidents?"

Barty has no idea what to say; this is the first time that Severus has honestly complained. No doubt he knows by now that the Dark Lord has people watching him. Barty's one of them, and so is Avery. Rabastan's hardly trusted with making tea, let alone doing anything important. And Regulus went missing not too long ago, amidst talk from Bellatrix that he lost the faith. It doesn't take a genius to notice that Severus is going the same way. Everyone can see it.

Right now, for instance, he has the same look in his eye as he did that night when he and Evans had their final row.

"I'm going out," he says finally.  
"I can't let you do that," Barty says again.  
"Try and stop me."

It's just too bad for him that Bellatrix can teach, and that Barty has always been a commendable student. Glaring at him, steely-eyed, Barty jabs his wand into the pale flesh of his own wrist. Without wasting time, he hisses:

"_Sectumsempra_."

And, naturally, Severus gives perfect attention to _this_ outburst. He has to. Barty injuring himself with a spell that Severus taught him with the intent that he'd use it on enemies? The perfection writes itself – and, better yet, keeps him in the flat through dinner, and through sex, and through Barty falling asleep.

He's gone in the morning, which just gives Barty cause to sigh.

He really was a lot easier to love before he got these pesky morals.


	13. Injurious

"obsequious"

The disgust clearly written on her face, Bellatrix pulls Barty into the Longbottoms' kitchen by his hand, unceremoniously flings him into the wall. He winces. He hates wincing, and knows that he shouldn't wince. Bellatrix doesn't need to speak to show that she also knows this. Here it is, the darker side of beauty. Her sneer distorts her handsome features, and rage makes her skin paler, oddly enough. She hates what Barty's presently showing her, this sudden inability to perform the Curse that she herself spent time teaching him. This just depresses him.

"It won't come," he explains faithlessly. "It just… _won't_ – and we've been at it with them for _two hours_. They still haven't said anything – they might not know-"

"They _know_ where our Master is," Bellatrix snaps. "And _you're_ beginning to sound like Severus did just before he left – and like Regulus did before he disappeared. Having _second doubts_ about your Master, to whom you swore _eternal_ loyalty?"

"No!" She would have to bring up Severus, the discussion of who still fills Barty's voice and eyes with manic, desperate urgency. Though he tries to subdue it, he knows that it comes out.

Bellatrix knows as well, and it softens her features into a smile. One of her hands and its spider-leg fingers make their way around his shoulder. She squeezes gently.

"Severus hurt you, didn't he? That whelp – he injured you _and_ betrayed Our Lord."

"Yes," Barty hisses. If anything, Severus's betrayal was the worst thing he'd ever done. He hadn't named names, but he'd still gone running for Albus Dumbledore when things had gotten the least bit dangerous.

"He deserves to suffer, does he not?"

"Of course. More than anyone else." What he did was worse than what Father never did.

"And he'll be yours for the breaking, once Our Lord returns."

"But Harry Potter-"

"Impertinent! As though a _child_ could fully destroy Our Lord! He is hardly defeated, Barty; as his most faithful, I can still feel His Presence. Can you feel It?"

Barty nods. Now that he stops to think, he can feel It. It's not as strong as he remembers, but they can fix that, can't they?

"So you see, He _is_ alive. And the Longbottoms know how to bring him back; they just need persuading. You can do that can't you?"

She squeezes his shoulder again, and, again, he nods, letting a devilish smile curl on his lips. As usual, she's entirely right. They'll bring their Lord back tonight, and return to instating His Rule in Wizarding Britain.

And, if he's lucky, Severus will only get what the Longbottoms have coming to them.


End file.
